Dear Readers, forgive me if this column doesn’t make sense … well, less than most other columns.

Truth is, one day into a five-day baby-sitting stint, I’m realizing I have no sense at all.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t be outsmarted by a 14-month-old who didn’t articulate “Da-da and Ma-ma” until they were 2,000 miles away. Fine time to learn to talk.

It was then I knew he knew more than the rest of us.

How can somebody no bigger than a brussels sprout run around this house like one of those whirligig firecrackers, darting from room to room while I – in chase – yell “be careful,” yet trip over the plastic truck protruding from the end of the couch?

Oh, I had sense at the outset and in the preparation. I even nixed one popular book because the author wrote that the rainbow could be seen “further” up the road rather than farther. Hmmph, I said, no such book around here.

But after reading “Baby Beluga” 14 times, I’m wondering if my senses are right anyhow. I can’t even find the seven merry mischief-makers playing hide-and-seek in “Ten Little Rabbits.”

I can find every single one of those horrid hares, page by page, except the sevens. I only count six, but then, I wasn’t good at my sevens in jacks either.

I’m not certain how much sense any of us has. Why wouldn’t a toddler screech the whole trip if strapped into a seat, looking backward in the car while his crotch is crunched by one belt and his shoulders are stretched from his collarbone?

He understands more than I do. He may not say “cat,” but he knows her tail and how to grab it before I can lunge.

He may eat some peas, to please.

But I’m not quick enough to keep them out of his nose, which I regret identifying for him in the first place.

As for the Embryonics Sing-With-Me Magic Cube, this kid’s got me stumped. He can find the lights and the piano, drums, tuba, orchestra, flute and guitar to tunes he dances to … and soon forgets.

I’m the one late – very late – at night singing “This Old Man,” “Old McDonald,” “Itsy-bitsy Spider.”

And, repeatedly, “B-i-n-g-o, B-i-n-g-o, B-i-n-g-o … Bingo was his name-o.”

It’s the age-old story about the baby sitter and the baby-sat.

One goes around smiling and beguiling, dancing and enchanting, wobbling and wooing. The other, the senseless one, can only say, “Do you have poopy pants?”